A Tree Stands in Copenhagen

December 18, 2004. After the funeral, she thought it had been laid to rest. The inexplicable pain she felt over not being able to save her father had tormented her for so long. Almost all her life. She thought it would become easier after he died, as she wouldn’t have to worry about where he was in the world. No longer would she wonder if he was home with his wife, or somewhere out on the streets of Philadelphia feeding his addiction to alcohol.

And when he died, a week before Christmas, the entire family gravitated over to Aunt Dot’s. They danced, sang, cried, and cleaved to each other in a way they hadn’t in decades. Instantly the usual suspects fell right back into place; Bobby dj’ed, Lana and Sahn danced in the mirror, and everybody else cut up, telling jokes and catching up on lost time. Aunt Dot played her life’s masterpiece on the piano, which she entitled “The Garlands”.

Then it was over. Processed. Fully expressed. At it’s logical conclusion. Or so she thought. Everybody went back to his or her life and the new year ensued. Another year passed, and by the end, she was absolutely, positively shocked over the grief she felt the next Christmas. Why now? What ghosts were still haunting her? She was obviously confused and decided to spend Christmas alone, by herself in the midst of her grief.

However, the following year she was determined to not repeat the madness. As November came around, even her mother-in-law reminded her of the incident the year before, saying that she hoped to see her in attendance at this year’s Christmas dinner. “Oh, of course. Please. I’m not going through that again!” she said heartily. Still, there were specks of lingering doubt.

But the Christmas season had gone well. She and Kaj had bought a tree and decorated early in December. Friends came over for dinner, commenting on all the lovely Christmas decorations in the apartment. The only remaining thing to do was to find a picture to put in the tiny picture-frame ornament.

The anniversary of his passing came without incident. She was busy all day and had even called her good friend to wish her a happy birthday. Then she got an email that changed everything. It was from Bobby who had sent a link to a sight that allowed people to light a virtual candle. Bobby had wanted her to light a virtual candle for their father. She clicked on the link and found it to be a brilliant idea. But with each successive page of the website, she was asked to do things she wasn’t prepared for. Take a deep breath. Quiet your thoughts. Reflect on the reason you’re lighting the candle. Add a few words of dedication. By the end, she was reduced to shreds.

The sobs were profuse, reaching far beyond reason and logic. The pain was so deep and deeply disturbing that she let it rip because to hold on to it would ultimately be damaging, she reasoned. And when it was over, Kaj came home from work. She told him of the anniversary. Of her grief. He promptly swept her out of the apartment to the city’s oldest amusement park, Tivoli, for an evening of Christmas beauty and splendor. They walked around, bought half-priced tree ornaments, drank gløgg, and ate æbleskiver. She was happy.

But when they got home, Kaj told her that his mother had found a picture of her father sitting in the scanner. Today of all days. A picture Kaj had scanned two years earlier and emailed to her for the funeral. Slowly, it began to dawn upon her. It was at that time that she finally began to understand. He wanted his due. Her father wanted to be acknowledged during this time in a way that she was trying so much to disregard.

All this time she thought it was about her inner-child needing to mourn. But she had done that again, and again, even more. That’s why it didn’t make sense to her. But no. It wasn’t about the inner child. It was the dead man’s need - his desire to contact the sensitive middle-child who would understand his calling.

The picture sat on her sofa until the next day. She was watching tv when she, during the commercial break, turned to the left to see him staring at her. She turned to the right to see the picture-frame ornament. She laughed as she put it together in her mind. She got the scissors out and carefully cut out the picture and set it into the frame.

She teased him. “You think you somethin’ just because you an ancestor and all. Uhmm hmm. ” She could hear him chuckle. Finally, he had his place. A place he couldn’t inhabit while living. He was now sharing Christmas, with family, as he be would be for years to come.

They were both at peace because a tree stands in Copenhagen.

Smoke

Curling, lilting, and wafting its way through ether, smoke, particularly cigarette smoke, has a nature that can be incredibly seductive and lethal at the same time. As a child I watched old black-and-white movies where Lauren Bacall, Bette Davis, and numerous other women worked a cigarette like a lion tamer works a whip. At the time I knew that I wanted to be that type of women, tough as nails and a heart of gold with yet an underlying sensuality. This ultimately led me to first fascination, and then habit, and finally disgust with smoking. Finito. End of story. Chapter closed. Or so I thought. After moving to Europe I find myself, once again, a victim of its allure-- or worse yet, my own stupidity.

When smoking was banned from New York City bars and restaurants in 2003, I thought it was very un-New York. I could see this happening in L.A., but not New York. This is a town that knows life is tough, and if someone chooses to shorten their life span by taking on smoking, then so be it. We New Yorkers are not afraid of death! After enduring smelly, noisy streets, crack-addicts as next door neighbors, and being felt up by strangers on the subway with an impending MTA fare hike, for God’s sake we deserve to be able to self-inflict by lighting up once in a while.

But I also welcomed the changed. I consider myself a “non-smoker” - meaning someone who doesn’t smoke consistently. I’ve been irritated on numerous occasions by smokers who do not know how to smoke responsibly. People who live in a world of “me” with the rest of us as extras in the scenes of their lives. Never do they develop socially responsible smoking habits such as turning your head so as not to blow smoke in someone’s face. They are lacking in such skills as the “mouth-slide” where, instead of turning one’s head, the entire mouth shifts to the other side of the face upon exhalation. This may sound weird, but in practice I’ve seen it performed with dignity and grace, particularly by women who I would call ghetto-fabulous. Thus, I welcomed the change in the law.

But it’s different here in Europe. Most Europeans early on in their lives have a social orientation around the dining room table, or at the pub, bar, or cafe. They are no stranger to the head turn, the mouth slide, and other smoking conventions. So in a scene repeated on any given day, I am sitting with Tanja, Celeste, Agneta, or any other friend who is a cocktail smoker. We’re in a restaurant, cafe, pub, wine bar, or any other setting involving eating and imbibing. At the point of the 2nd cocktail, one of the aforementioned women pulls out a cigarette. I try to ignore it, but after a while it begins calling my name. Ultimately, my friend asks if I’d like one, and I say yes.


Cigarettes are great because they give you the opportunity for an expanded level of expression. It gives color and nuance to a pause in a conversation, or to a moment of silence as a handsome man walks by. It also gives a certain type of stability as it allows me to drink without getting frightfully drunk so that I can just simply enjoy the moment with a friend.

However, I haven’t completely lost my mind. I’m writing this blog entry to “out” myself. Cigarettes are horrible because it aids in my lack of judgment while in a slightly inebriated state. My decision to do something to my body with no beneficial outcome flies in the face of how I live every day. I am a Pilates instructor and I live for the most part a life of healthy eating, meditating, and working out. My occasional cocktail smoking probably comes from a place that says, “You can’t be too good”. Everybody knows all work and no play makes Jill a dull girl.

But even deeper than that is what I think is the need for human beings to have addictions. Whether food, alcohol, tobacco, sex, or any other object of obsession, it serves to numb the senses so we can tolerate just how hard life can be (even outside of New York). It stunts the growth process by delaying the pain associated with overcoming weaknesses, shortcomings, negative attitudes, broken hearts, etc., etc.

I am no saint. I will not go on to say that I will never pick up a cigarette again. But I do know that this personal acknowledgement of exactly what it is will make me take pause during the time of the offer at the second cocktail. This observation couldn’t have come at a better time. Denmark has decided to ban cigarette smoking from bars and restaurants in 2007! Finito. End of story. Chapter closed.

By the Lakes

Every Sunday like clockwork, Kaj and I walk around the lakes that are located in the middle of Copenhagen. It is a ritual borne out of my desire to have a shared activity, allowing us to bond in ways other than watching TV or doing household chores. It is a physical activity that is much more low-keyed than my usual Pilates or bike riding. Surprisingly, what I have unearthed is a weekly meditation on our lives, the world, and all things in between.

We just happen to live across from the lakes, so it is easy to get there. “Sø” is the Danish word for “lake” and the three consecutive lakes consist of Sankt Jørgens Sø, Pebling Sø, and Sortedams Sø. They run a course of 6.3 kilometers (3.9 miles) connecting the neighborhoods of Østerbro, Nørrebro, Vesterbro, Frederiksberg and Centrum. It is home to at least 5 different species of birds including ducks, pigeons, doves, seagulls, and my personal favorite, the swan. The humans that come are there to walk, jog, push baby carriages, pull dogs along, sit on benches, and in general, people watch.

What I love about the lakes is that as soon as you step onto the walking path, you are transported into a natural boulevard of the above-mentioned species. Kaj and I spend long periods of time watching the birds and their very interesting society. From the fights over the human-tossed morsels of bread to the springtime cavalcade of newborn chicks, it is a developed society - a society of which I am envious.

The envy comes as a result of being an outsider. I am the outsider in a city and country with old traditions and standard ways of being. Gone is the breadth of choices and experiences that filled my days in America, specifically New York. Gone is the opportunity to experience so many different cultures within a day that it feels strange to be around only one type. Danes are, for the most part, a very homogeneous people.


So while walking along the lakes, I am constantly reminded that the life of the city continues to pulsate as cars pass by on the one side. These cars are filled with passengers going to typically Danish activities such as birthday meals around the table with hot chocolate and rolls, or a football (soccer) match between local rivals FC København and Brøndby. On the other side, small cafes play host to those who choose to eat, sip, slurp, and enjoy.

While walking I think about the solace I find in having gone to my Brazilian dance class the day before. My teacher, Luciano is from Salvador da Bahia, the Harlem of Brazil. He, too, is an outsider. But surprisingly, there is a community of Brazilians who get together for parties, speaking Portuguese, and dancing the samba. Brazilian dance has a very strong African influence and I sometimes go to these events as a desire to move my body in a very “African” way. But, still, it makes me miss my people even more. I miss black folks in America.

I have found common ground with others who come in from other countries. They, too, are feeling on the outskirts. Whether from France, Somalia, Turkey, Iraq, Poland, Germany, China, or Mexico, you feel the isolation of not being Danish. This, according to my Swedish friend, Agneta, is also felt by other Scandinavians. Danes like being around Danes and pride themselves on their highly developed society that has taken care that most of their citizens are middle-class and educated.

I, in particular, share an affinity with the people I have met from Great Britain. Friends from England, Scotland, and Ireland have preserved me over the months with their impeccable sense of humor and timing. They have introduced me to pub culture, which takes the task of holding ones liquor to high art! In my darkest hours, I turn to them for comfort, and a pint of course.

We all have come to learn that Denmark is more of a “melting pot” than America. In order to survive here, you have to become Danish. This is in contradistinction to what is now called the quilt of America where it is easier to maintain a past cultural identity. In Denmark, foreigners seeking residency go to language school and, if you’re consistent, you’ll complete the course in a year and a half. In social interactions, we learn about them but they do not learn about us. I can’t count the number of dinner parties I’ve been to where no one has stopped to ask where I come from, what my experience of Danish culture is, who I am.


So these walks are a balm for me. It is a time to ponder how long I will be living in Denmark and to hold Kaj’s hand in the midst of my utter confusion over how to make a living here. It is a time to quell the notion that I have absolutely nothing to do here but to pass the time. It’s a time to re-fuel as I know that I have to push through the invisible wall that keeps me separated from them.



I believe that the walls can come down. I must keep pushing through. Step by step, my footprints wear through the gravel-filled pathway by the lakes. Step by step, bird by bird.

Me and Di

My good, good girlfriend, Diane, got married. MARRIED. I’m tripping as I write this because this is the woman who said she would never get married. NEVER. And I could relate to this sentiment. At the time that we met, I was divorced and didn’t feel the need to repeat this ritual that seems to be so desperately in need of a makeover.

But what tore me up is that I couldn’t be there. Diane is a sister, my sister. We are tied in ways that I don’t even understand. All I know is that my bond to her is there-- strong and irreversible.

We met at HBO, both working as writer/producers in the on-air promotions department. She seemed very sweet and innocent. We became fast friends, but I soon found out that the sweetness and innocence was not the whole picture of who she is. Diane is the type of woman that women want to be, and men want to have. She is sweet, loving, intelligent, and a shrewd businesswoman.

There is also a homegrown, down-to-the-earth quality about her that I identified with right away. We’re not the garden variety Sex-in-the-City, Manolo Blahnik, Louis Vuitton-bearing New York City women. We’re also not the all-natural, vegan, back to earth types either. It’s more something in between. More of a meeting of the minds between my bowl of South Carolina grits and her Jamaican porridge.

But it’s been our differences that have helped me to grow. When we first met, I was so anti-pop culture and anti-convention that oftentimes I would cut off wildly accepted expressions of American culture such as Miami Vice and sayings like “that was FRESH!” which (wow) still irks me to this day. But every now and then it bites me in butt-- just like when I couldn’t “get” Prince or Purple Rain.

In the case of the latter, I subsequently had a remarkably vivid dream of the Purple One, or better yet, a phantasmagoric sexcapade where P and me romped through the galaxy like I’ve (sigh) never romped before. Needless to say, I interpreted this as a need to revisit my initial disdain. And as fate would have it, I found myself three months later at the Glam Slam, Prince’s one-time club in LA. There I experienced one of his infamous 2am to 4am concerts. A work of art. Priceless. I have been a devotee ever since.

In any case, Diane served the vital function of short-circuiting the universe’s need to get my attention in unorthodox ways. She shares with me all the things she loves or loved including Boyz to Men, Celine Dion’s theme song to the movie Titanic (I don’t even know the damn name), and the Golden Girls television show. Out of the three, I’ve held onto the latter.

She’s made me work hard as a screenwriter, pushing me to my writing limits on the scripts Soon Come and The Pagoda. She’s made me play hard, sparking my craving for travel, which she got from her mother and my Jamaican “mommy”, Joyce. I’ve experienced life from the back of a Rastafarian truck, participated in more group events - hanging out with more people at one time than I’m naturally comfortable with, and have partaken in many a Sunday dinner with Mommy’s slamming rice and peas, curry chicken, goat, and all things Jamaican in between.

So you can see, not being there on her wedding day was a dagger in my heart. Moreover, she was there on mine. Kaj and I got married in a small, quick, private ceremony that was necessary for immigration purposes. At first I was afraid to ask her, because I knew she would be concerned for me. Kaj and I had known each other less than a year, and then there was also the “white thing”. Not that it was a bad thing, but it meant more complications.

Diane and Kaj met each other at the funeral for Di’s beloved grandmother, Daisy. Daisy was Diane’s rock and vice versa. In the months before her passing, I remember Diane as she watched Daisy grow weaker and weaker until the end. The way in which she was there for “Gama” was a lesson in loving. Yet at the funeral, she took the time to look into Kaj’s eyes to see who he really was. So it was with great relief that Diane said “yes” to being a witness at our ceremony. It also said to me that she thought things would be okay.

A year later, Kaj and I would travel to see Di as she had moved out to California. It was a tough time for her as the entertainment is full of promises and closed doors, even for the talented. At that time in my life, friends were either distancing themselves or being supportive based on how they felt about my being with a white boy. Even I had my doubts and insecurities as I remembered my pact with myself in the first grade to show the world how successful black marriages could happen. When I think back to why I made the pact in the first place, it was because all of the successful blacks I “knew”, Sidney Poitier, Diane Carroll, Sammy Davis, Jr., were all married to white people.

But I learned that life is a little more complex and the universe sometimes has something else in mind, and for me that was Kaj. Everybody couldn’t see the depth of the man who was now entering my life. My current life in Europe has shown me why that it is like that in America. So the quiet, shy, geeky, computer-nerdiness of Kaj didn’t fit the ghetto-cool, intellectual, new Negro persona we were trying to fashion.

However, Diane was one of the ones who really saw Kaj for who he is. At one point in our visit to LA, she reached over to me in the car and whispered, “Kaj just called you his brown bunny.” In that moment I knew that she got him. She got his heart, his love, his generosity, his integrity. He wasn’t just some appendage to me that should just be tolerated. He was and is a big soul.

I’ve left out all the arguments or disagreements because they don’t mean anything. Like the time I left her at the office and went to the NAMIC Christmas gala because I thought she was being her usual late self but in reality I forgot that we’d agreed to meet at the other exit door! Or like when we went to France and were at the Chateau De Versailles and we lost one another because Diane decided to stay with a tour group and didn’t tell me because she was, after a week, sick and tired of being with my ass! No, it doesn’t matter (heifer).

So this is my wedding gift to Diane. Thank you for your friendship, love, sisterhood, listening, and family. Thank you for Mommy, Gama, Ann Marie, and the "continent" of Jamaica. I will always be there for you. You and Jason always have a home to come to in Denmark.

With love eternal,
Lana

Intro

"...Then you came along with your siren of song
To tempt me to madness!
I thought for a while that your poignant smile was tinged with the sadness
Of a great love for me."

From Lush Life, lyrics by Billy Strayhorn

This is it. My contribution to the tens of millions of blogs happening worldwide. "Why", I ask myself, "do you feel the need to create a blog?"

"Dear Heart", I answer, "because if you don't, you will lose your mind. You see there's an opportunity to save yourself from the insanity of picking up, moving to another country, and starting over again."

"Are you saying it was crazy of me to leave New York and move to Copenhagen?"

(Sigh) "Dear Heart, you know you. You tend to choose the not-so-straight path. The road less travelled. The baptism-by-fire approach to life."

"I must be outta my got-damn mind."

"Yeah, well.... Look. It's a courageous move that will sometimes be fraught with challenges, insecurities, and cravings for a plate of fish and grits from Pan Pan. But hey, you just may be the person who can bring the Electric Slide to Denmark! You never know!

Okay, you got that! But listen-- the title, Lush Life?"

"Uhm Hm. You choose that because there is a tendency for you to gravitate to the dramatic. You can't help it. It's a part of your heritage. Your DNA. Remember Aunt Ree Ree marching down the middle of Germantown Avenue in her bikini? Remember Uncle Clarence falling off the roof at Haines Street, trying to get the electric back on? Remember..."

"I get the picture."

"Dear Heart, Lush Life represents the possibility of the choices you have now. If you read the full lyrics to the song, you'll see it's extremely maudlin and depressing. But if you really read it, it's kind of fabulous! I mean, who spends a week in Paris to get over a love gone south? Jazz and cocktails? Please!"

"Interesting."

"Choose the fabulous, and change the perception is what I'm saying. Don't get locked into what was in the past. Think of the Sugar Hill Gang's Rappers Delight line, "I'm gonna freak you here, I'm gonna freak you there, I'm gonna freak you out of this atmosphere."

"Now you're embarrassing me."

"You know what I mean. Freak Europe. Now shut up and get to it."

Dear friends and family,

Welcome to Lush Life - the blog of me, myself, and I -- Lana Garland. Hope you enjoy!

Love eternal,
Lana